The Last Thing
by The Sushi Monster
Summary: She learned the hard way never to accuse him of loving. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter, which belongs to JK Rowling, nor the Dangerverse, which belongs to Anne Walsh. The idea came from Living Without Danger, hence why credit goes to the greatness that is her series.**

**The Last Thing**

She lifts her leg, her foot straight and pointed, the toes barely touching the ground. The numb feeling of cold spreads through her limbs, the wood beneath her soothing her burning feet. Her other foot balances her as she spins, her hair—held in a sloppy ponytail, stray locks falling on her face, tickling her cheeks—sways with her, following her arms as they twist around her, following her shoulders as they turn, following her torso as she dances.

The music is a blurring of color to her. Reds, fiery and bright, oranges, vivid and clear. Yellows, bright and cheerful, greens, sapient and calm. Blues, soothing and fierce, purples, royal and caring.

She follows the pinks and the grays as they blend together, holding her as she dances. White and black swim across and around her face as expressions flutter across her face—anger, love, calmness, disgust, peace, hate, awe, fear, pleading.

Her heart is open, free. The rhythm flows through her as she mentally sings along to the beat, her feet stepping, twirling, and spinning.

And then it stops.

With a halt, with a sudden jolt, the music is frozen, the beat no longer pounding in her ears. Her feet are frozen, her bare toes sticking to the ground. She blinks once, twice, a third time.

Her lips fold into a frown before she picks up her robes and throws them over her simple clothing. She walks towards the shadow that stands before her music player.

"I was using that," she says, her arms crossed and her eyes suddenly hard. Her face, frowning and irritated, contrasted the calm expression she had been wearing moments ago.

The man—she can see his short raven hair and his baggy clothing—smirks, sending shivers up her spine. "I can see that." He steps into the torchlight radiating from the hallway. "What is a young lady like you up at a time like this?"

"Oh, please, don't try to pull the prefect card on me. What are _you_ doing up, anyways?" She asks, her eyes suddenly looking very tired.

Still smiling, the teenager shrugs. "Maybe the exact same thing as you," he says, taking a step forward. By instinct, she takes a step back. "You're a very pretty girl."

"And you're a very ugly monster. Now, why don't you run along to your little Slytherin hell-hole, why don't you."

His eyes flash so suddenly, she barely notices. The smile is still strong on his face and his feet inch closer. She steps back again, her hand twisting subtly into her robes.

He notices.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says, his voice slightly sweet, slightly sour. "Why would I?"

"Because you're a Slytherin," she immediately replies, her voice harsh, biting.

He gasps, lifting a hand to his heart. "Ouch, that stung! Feisty, aren't we?" She continues to glare at him. His smirk only feeds off her anger, off her subtle fear.

He takes another step just as she takes one backwards. She can feel the wall closing in behind her. She suppresses the urge to bite her lip.

"What do you want, Riddle?"

"You, of course, Thompson. Why else would I be standing here in an empty classroom watching you dance? Beautifully, if I may say so."

"You're a creep. Dumbledore has the right idea about you. And besides," she says, turning her back to him, the room suddenly bright. "All of us Ravenclaws know about what happened to Cynthia Lee."

"You do, do you?" he says. His hand rests on her shoulder, his fingers lightly moving in circles. "Do you know the whole story?"

She picks up his hand as if it disgusts her—it does, she tells herself, he's nothing more than filth, a rotten Slytherin—and throws him a look telling him so. He only chuckles softly. It irritates her even more.

"I don't, and frankly, I don't _want to_. So, please if you will, Riddle, _leave me alone_."

"Thompson, oh Thompson. _When_ will you realize you want me? That you need me?"

"Never, Tom Riddle, because I never will. _Never_. I haven't yet in fifteen years of living, and I won't for another thousand."

He shrugs, his eyes glittering, his mind calculating, she can tell. He _is_ a Slytherin after all.

"Well Myrtle Thompson, I hope you had a fun time on your date with that Mudblood, Victor Marple," he says. She tenses, her eyes narrowing, and she opens her mouth to speak but he lays a finger on her lips. "Uh uh, shh, don't speak. You know very well, Myrtle, that he isn't good enough for you. No one is."

"Except for you? What do you love me or something?"

His eyes flash again, and she tries her best not to flinch. In that moment, with those words, she seals her fate.

Tom Riddle grabs her wrist, dragging her face to his. His dark eyes are searching her own, those covered by her dorky glasses, calculating once more, but they scare her. She tries not to let a whimper escape her, she tries to be strong.

She tries not to hope for his lips to touch hers, not to hope for her knees to give way and for him to have to catch her.

Instead, he releases her. "I don't love, Myrtle. I lust. Learn the difference."

He spins around, heading to the entrance. He mutters something under his breath, and she believes he doesn't know she could hear him.

She's left staring at the empty classroom, empty hallway, as the clock strikes midnight, his words echoing in her head.

_It might be last thing you do…_

* * *

The next day, she's sitting in the bathroom on the second floor, tears flowing on her face. Olive Hornby's words roll in her head. _Victor only wants to sleep with you. You're ugly, why would he actually _like_ you? Your glasses, they're so dorky and ugly. They look stupid—just like you. You'll never find a boyfriend. A real one._

The tears fall harder, faster. Riddle's words and the new feelings that had been invoked in that classroom all roll around in her head. Her head feels as if it's going to explode, the pressure builds, the saltwater dampening her cheeks, her lips.

She knows then and there that she likes him. She doesn't _love_ him, she's known him too long, knows too much about him and his reputation to fall in love with him. But she knows a crush when she has one. And she has one. A major one.

A glittering rock catches her eye. She bends over, picking it up, tossing it up and down, and catching it in her palm. She eyes the writing on the wall, the random swearing at the professors, the random _so and so +so and so_, and the random "I hate life" spread across the stall wall. Smiling slightly, she slowly carves an M, soon joined by an F and a T. Her hands shake slightly but she dismisses it as she carves his initials besides hers. She joins them with a _love_, even though she repeatedly tells herself she doesn't love him. She can't _possibly_ love him.

As she draws a heart around her carving, she hears soft footsteps and slithering. She ignores it, thinking it's only another girl come to tease her. She sniffles, wiping away tears that still haunt her eyes.

The sound of a stall closing reaches her ears and she stands up. "Hornby, if that's you, will you please just leave me _alone?_ I get your point."

No answer.

Frowning, she hears a whisper. She freezes as the voice reaches her. It sounds _male_.

"Oi, this is a _girl's_ bathroom! Get _out_!"

No answer.

The whispering continues. By now, Myrtle's frozen, her feet numb, her hands shaking. She hears hissing.

Confused and scared, she forces open the stall door.

The last thing she sees before she dies is bright yellow eyes.

The last thing she remembers before she dies is dropping the rock.

The last thing she feels before she dies is heart-wrenching pain and her body shriveling up.

The last thing she hears before she dies is _his_ voice.

"I told you so."

Learning the difference between loving Tom Marvolo Riddle and lusting after the idea of him was the last thing she does before she dies.

* * *

Reviews are always welcome. Have no clue where the idea came, but still. Hope you liked it. And pleeease, review!


End file.
